


Look at This Photograph

by airplanejam



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Getting Together, Holidays, Identity Porn, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28275423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airplanejam/pseuds/airplanejam
Summary: Every photo taken of Steve and Tony just seems to turn out that way, no matter what Steve does.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 147
Collections: 2020 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange





	Look at This Photograph

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainstars/gifts).



> This was my fill for the prompt "The tabloid keeps getting shots of Steve looking at Tony from a distance. They aren’t even trying to get a scoop, it’s just that most of Steve’s pictures turn out like that" for the wonderful captainstars. I tweaked it a little bit, but I hope you still enjoy!!
> 
> This is meant to be set during early canon, but I think the time period might be a little hand-wavey in that there's technology and things. 
> 
> One million thanks to my beta, [dragonlover44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonlover44) for suggesting this title, being eternally patient with me, and also being simply the all around best. Without you, this fic would be a real mess. 
> 
> Happy holidays!

Steve hadn’t even noticed it at first, really. It had been Jan who had pointed it out over an otherwise unremarkable Sunday breakfast. 

“Aww,” she cooed at Steve, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Look at this! It’s you and Iron Man from last Friday. Did you have a good time?”

Steve frowned, dutifully leaning over to glance at the paper. “Yes, of course,” he said. “It’s Iron Man.” Iron Man had suggested they head out after a light skirmish with some of AIM’s goons uptown: _Mr. Stark’s given me the whole day off_ , he said and Steve had heard his smile even through the mask. _Let’s go out. My treat._

But Jan had an appointment she was already late for, and Hank scuttled off in turn, muttering something about his ants, and Thor had shook his head ruefully and set off to wherever he went when they weren’t fighting, and if that left Steve and Iron Man entirely alone together, well, Steve wasn’t complaining. So he’d ordered a modest burger and fries while Iron Man had sipped at a milkshake through his mouth slit, and if it had been one of Steve’s best afternoons that month, then no one was any wiser. 

“How cute,” Jan said. “Might have to save this photo for the anniversaries.” She tilted the paper further towards Steve. The printed article wasn’t even about either of them, but rather the trouble some AIM members had gotten into and the collateral damage they had done to the city buildings (which was obviously all paid for by Mr. Stark, bless his heart). Still, Steve’s eyes lingered on the photograph Jan was indicating. 

The photo was a little smaller and located below the front-and-center one, which had a shot of the Avengers in action. It was of him in the diner Iron Man had taken him to, head thrown back laughing. Iron Man’s back was visible and from this low perspective, it almost looked as if he had placed his hand on top of Steve’s. _Two Avengers having lunch at the Ritz Diner after battle with AIM_ , the caption read.

Jan cleared her throat, smirking, and Steve belatedly realized he had been staring too long. He leaned back, attempting casualty. The photo wasn't incriminating itself, but it was really no use. It wasn’t as if Jan hadn’t already known. She was extremely observant, and despite his attempts at being subtle, he’d been told that it was the plainest thing to see in the world when he was sweet on someone. “Did you pay for his drink, Steve?” 

Mr. Stark walked in, then, saving Steve from answering. He was fixing up his tie with one hand and gripping files overstuffed with paper in the other. “Morning, Tony!” Jan said, and Mr. Stark grinned back at her. Hank grunted, seemingly still half asleep in his cereal. Steve straightened and gave him a polite nod, forcing his eyes back down to the butter knife in his hands. Mr. Stark looked gorgeous as usual this morning, in a gray suit and blue tie with his hair artfully tousled. It was rare that he would join them for breakfast, but once every few days Steve figured he made a point of coming down to say hello. 

“Good morning, Jan, Hank, Steve. Say, what’s got Steve all red this early in the day?” 

Steve froze but before he could begin to scramble for a lie, Jan cut in. “Oh, nothing,” she said easily, as Steve let out a silent breath of relief. She turned the page of the newspaper over so the photo was face-down and Steve shot her a grateful look. Confessing to their incredibly handsome (movie-star brilliant, show-stoppingly stunning, Steve could go on) benefactor that Steve was harboring a massive crush on his bodyguard was something he had hoped to avoid entirely, and he didn’t want Mr. Stark to see the photo no matter how mild it was. 

Mr. Stark himself was quite the looker, and tabloid mags that Steve hadn’t been able to look away from on his grocery runs had informed him that Mr. Stark was also ... flexible in his choice of partners. If it weren’t for Iron Man, Steve would’ve had his eye on him, instead. 

As it was, each time Mr. Stark spoke to Steve, he seemed to lose all semblance of coordination and that didn’t happen to Steve often. His tongue would trip over itself, and he tended to bump into walls and table corners if he was unable to successfully flee the room. Their interactions hadn’t been stiltedly awkward, but that was solely thanks to Mr. Stark’s unending charisma and charm. 

Regardless, his silly infatuation with Mr. Stark was just a passing thing. It certainly didn’t compare to the real deal. Iron Man was irreplaceable. 

\---

Steve tore open the envelope addressed to the mansion in Sue Storm’s neat penmanship. He’d received a similar letter a few weeks ago in the same handwriting, except that one was smaller and contained an invitation to the Four’s Christmas party at the Baxter Building. All of the Avengers had received the same letter, but Iron Man hadn’t been able to attend. He’d “had the night off,” according to Mr. Sta—Tony. Steve had been disappointed—Iron Man more than deserved every rare break he got, but Steve had (selfishly, privately) hoped that Iron Man would’ve wanted to attend the party with him anyway. 

He reached inside the envelope and his fingers found something glossy and smooth: photographs. There were at least twenty, all taken at the party. He shuffled through them as he made his way through the hallways. There were several of Thor and Ben, arm wrestling, wolfing down appetizers, and knocking back glasses with Johnny wiped out in the background. Others showed Jan and Sue holding mugs of eggnog and laughing gently, and there was Hank and Reed and Tony gathered in a circle, playing some version of three-way chess. Steve was in a few of the pictures, too. He was smiling next to Jan on the sofa, arm wrestling Thor (Johnny had egged him into it and Steve hadn’t had the heart to tell him no) and shaking hands with Reed. 

It had been a pleasant evening, on the whole. Steve’s stomach had been full and the atmosphere had been bright with Christmas lights and gleaming with music and laughter. He wished Iron Man had been there—of course he did; he always wished Iron Man was with him—but that was alright. Maybe next year. Maybe by next year Steve would have had the guts to ask him, and maybe they would be the ones to host the party, and maybe they could even decorate the tree together, and—

Next year was a long way off. Steve sighed, continuing his trek across the mansion. He figured a few of these could go on the refrigerator in the kitchen. Jarvis would appreciate it, surely. He glanced down, shuffling to the next one and then nearly dropped all the photos. He stared, fingers twitching around the edges. He had to concentrate not to crumple it. 

Jan and Hank and Sue and Reed smiled up at him. It wasn’t a candid—they were all posing, Hank’s arm around Jan’s shoulders, cheeks tinted red, and Sue leaning into Reed’s side. In the background, behind the red of Sue’s Santa hat, was Steve. Steve and Tony. 

_“Captain!” Tony had called jovially, speeding to catch up to Steve in the corridor. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for a few days now—how’s the new uniform fit? Are the gloves okay?”_

_Steve swallowed. He shifted Jan and Sue’s refilled glasses of wine and wiggled his fingers demonstratively. “They fit great, Mr. Stark. Amazingly durable, thank you. I haven’t torn them since you gave them to me.”_

_“I’m glad to hear it. And ‘Tony’ is fine, Captain.”_

_“In that case, Steve is fine as well. Uh, Tony.”_

_Tony beamed at him, and then he suddenly stopped walking. He reached out to stop Steve, and when Steve glanced over he was looking up at the doorway._

_“Seems like we got caught,” Tony said. “They did have mistletoe in your time, yeah?”_

_“Of course weー” Steve bit his tongue. Tony was just pulling his leg. “We had mistletoe,” he finished, pointlessly._

_“Well, then, Steve. You know what that means. Am I going to get a kiss?” Tony’s eyes sparkled with mirth. Steve could turn away, laugh it off, and he knew Tony wouldn’t say anything. But a part of him yearned for it. Tony Stark, here for the kissing. For him._

_What about Iron Man, a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, but Steve shook it off. Iron Man wasn’t with him at the party, let alone with him in the way Steve wanted. And a simple kiss didn’t mean anything anyhow, certainly not to an international heartthrob like Tony._

_So he bent down to make up for the scant few inches between them, heart hammering in his chest, and pressed a light kiss to Tony’s cheek. When he pulled away he could've sworn Tony’s ears were pink._

\---

The rec room was empty save for the quiet sounds of the Yankees losing a game from the TV when Steve opened the door. Someone must have gotten fed-up with the team and left—Steve could understand. 

He had been hoping for some company while he drew; Steve knew none of the other Avengers lived at the mansion full-time like he did but it wasn’t uncommon to find them hanging around. He’d finished his nightly workout, eaten a pleasant dinner with Jarvis, and decided to take a rare night for himself; the reports he needed to file could wait til morning. If he was honest, he had been hoping to find Iron Man down here—they could’ve enjoyed one of their late-night chats or even watched that western Iron Man had been talking up to Steve for weeks—but Steve would take what he could get. 

He set his sketchbook down on the armrest of the sofa and sunk into the seat. He had no interest in the game today and from the score, it looked like the Yankees didn’t have a chance in hell of making a comeback, anyway, so he dug the remote out from between the cushions. 

Steve let his mind wander as he flipped through the channels. His head twinged slightly at the light from the screen—a lingering effect of his almost-healed concussion—but he ignored it. He caught a snippet of reality TV, skipped immediately past a cheaply produced cop show, and lingered briefly on a nature documentary. He finally settled on the nightly news for background noise, but before he could reach for his sketchbook, the sound of the door banging open interrupted him. 

“Steve!” Iron Man clanged into the room, raising a hand in greeting. “I checked the library for you but you weren’t there. Figured you’d be here instead.” 

“You sure found me. What can I do for you, Shellhead?”

Iron Man gestured to the TV and the coach groaned under his weight as he took a seat next to Steve. “I, uh. Stark finished up a prototype for the company and decided to call it a day. Set me free, too.”

Steve grinned and offered Iron Man the remote. “Not much is on right now. I was thinking we could watch—”

But Iron Man wasn’t listening to Steve. He was turned away, facing the TV. Steve followed his gaze to the screen. 

The screen was split—on one half were scenes from yesterday’s battle: Thor, fending off Bulldozer and Piledriver, Iron Man in the air, gauntlets poised, Jan firing her energy blasts, Hank throwing a punch. Captain America, however, was conspicuously missing. 

On the other half of the screen was Steve—not Captain America—and Iron Man flying together, low to the ground. Or rather, Iron Man was flying and holding an unconscious Steve to his chest in a bridal carry. The video was blurry and looked like it was taken on a cheap cell phone. It wasn’t easy to read a suit of metal, but Steve couldn't help thinking that they looked—intimate. 

He let himself imagine it briefly: Iron Man, worried. Iron Man, carrying Steve like a damsel. Iron Man’s metal gauntlets clutching at Steve’s face, grabbing his hand in his own. Iron Man pulling them off, to dig his real fingers into Steve’s shoulder. Iron Man rumbling, _Never do that to me again, Winghead._

Steve dimly registered the news anchor’s voice: “Iron Man carries a civilian to safety, away from the Avengers’ battle with the Wrecking Crew.” 

The screen shifted to a different scene—politics. The White House. “Thanks for the save,” Steve said, to fill the silence. 

“Yeah,” Iron Man said, and then there was a little burst of static, like he was clearing his throat. “You really scared me there, Steve.” 

He didn’t remember being held by Iron Man. He knew the battle had been yesterday night. Steve had been debriefed after he woke up in the mansion’s infirmary, bleary and with a pounding headache—sure signs of a concussion, for him. He remembered, before that, buying paint from the art store in his civilian clothes, spotting the Wrecking Crew across the street. He remembered pinging the Avengers through his identicard and running at Thunderball, who’d been about to toss a _real_ civilian into a building. After that, he remembered Thunderball getting one good hit in, and then nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” said Steve. “I’m all healed now. Good as new.”

Iron Man did not respond. He flipped through a couple of other channels, instead, freezing for a second on a business channel, where Tony stood in a suit and tie, every bit the professional. Just as fast, he skipped to the next one. 

Steve frowned. “It’s Tony. Don’t you want to watch his interview?”

“No, not really,” Iron Man said quickly. “I see enough of him as it is. Besides, he told me that it didn't go very well for him.”

Steve did not think that _he_ got to see enough of Tony, but that was alright. He had Iron Man right here next to him. He couldn’t ask for more. “How about we watch High Noon, like you wanted?” he said, and didn’t need to see Iron Man’s face to know he was smiling. 

\---

They were fighting—AIM again, full-fucking-circle—when Steve heard a grunt over the comms and a flash of red at the corner of his eye as Iron Man plummeted to the ground. 

“Go. I'll cover you,” said Ant-Man, but Steve was already sprinting to Iron Man’s side before the words had even left his mouth. 

“Iron Man,” he barked, heart thudding painfully in his chest. “Iron Man! Can you hear me?”

For a few seconds, there was no response, and Steve’s hands came up to grip either side of the faceplate as he kneeled next to Iron Man’s body.

Iron Man had taken a hit directly to the face, and Steve knew it wasn’t the first one. They’d been roughing him up since the Avengers arrived, and now he wasn’t moving. “Iron Man!” Steve yelled again. Silence. 

Then, finally, a moan from inside the armor. “Cap?” Iron Man said, and that was his voice. That was his honest-to-god voice, no vocal filters in the way. The low note sounded strangely familiar. 

“Right here,” said Steve, leaning over the suit. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Iron Man paused. “Take off the armor.” He sounded grim, as if he’d already been through the possibilities and this was inevitable. Then again, gentler: “Cap. I’m going to need—ah.” His breath hitched in pain. “Need you to take the armor off. You know where the catches are.”

His hands were shaking badly and blood was rushing deafeningly loud in his ears. “Take off your armor,” Steve repeated. “But you—”

“I know,” Iron Man snapped. “Cap, I need you to do it _now_ or else it will _crush_ my airway and I will lose _organ function._ ”

Steve’s blood ran cold. His hands flew over the catches and he pulled off the neck plate first to reveal a deep gash on tanned skin. He could hear Iron Man gasping for air, relieved. He checked that his body was shielding Iron Man’s from the press behind them—it was, thank god, and he moved to the faceplate next. It was dented badly around the nose and mouth area, metal pressing downwards. Remarkable that Iron Man could still breathe. 

Steve tore at the faceplate and nearly froze. He knew Iron Man’s face. 

Iron Man was Tony Stark. 

Iron Man, his best friend, his partner, was also Tony Stark, inventor, genius, billionaire, CEO, Iron Man’s own employer.

Tony’s eyes opened and closed as he panted for air. “Surprise,” he mumbled up at Steve. His nose was crooked. Probably broken, Steve’s mind noted unhelpfully.

Steve didn’t let himself stop. Didn’t respond. He let his training carry his hands to the abdominal plates. He would worry about Iron Man— _Tony_ —and his secret identity later, when Steve was sure he wasn’t going to die on him. Tony had said _organ function_ —that could’ve meant anywhere in his abdominopelvic cavity. He pulled at the catches, lifting the plate as slowly as he dared. 

Tony’s stomach was bare beneath the plate, covered in blood and mottled with bruises. The metal was embedded in the wound above his right hip bone, bleeding uncontrollably. The skin around it was pulled in all directions, like the metal had been dragging through it as Tony moved. 

Steve held his hands as steady as he could and ripped at the plate so he could separate it from the part lodged in Tony’s gut. “Jesus, Tony,” Steve whispered. Tony was writhing in pain above him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

“Almost done,” Steve soothed automatically, smoothing a hand down Tony’s arm. He tossed the ripped portion aside none too gently on the concrete and left the rest of it in place for the real medics, now relatively stabilized. 

Steve took a second to take a deep breath, wiped his bloodied hands on the thighs of his uniform, and moved up to his chest. “Alright, Shellhead, brace yourself.” He reached for the edges of Tony’s chest plate. 

“The chest plate stays on,” Tony wheezed, hands scrabbling to cover the glowing circle at the center of his chest. “Doesn’t…can’t take it off.” His eyelids were fluttering fast and when he opened his eyes, Steve could see how dilated his pupils were.

“Tony,” Steve said urgently. “I’m getting you to hospital. Can you put your arms around my neck—”

“No,” Tony said, again, with startling vehemence, and then coughed. “We are not going to a hospital. Mansion.”

“Tony—”

“ _Mansion._ ” Tony glared at him, and then passed out. 

-

Steve stayed by Tony’s bedside at the infirmary all night, collecting his thoughts. 

It all added up, now that he knew. Iron Man was just as brilliant as Tony, his quick-thinking having gotten the Avengers out of one-too-many sticky situations. Tony funded, cared for, upheld the Avengers because he was an Avenger. Iron Man didn’t have a room at the mansion because he didn’t need one. Tony was always sporting black-eyes after their battles because he was the one getting tossed around. And Steve—Steve was so attracted to Tony Stark because he _was_ everything Iron Man was. He had Iron Man’s heart of gold, and maybe Steve’s subconscious had recognized that before he realized it. 

Jan had breezed in, bright and early, and left the next day’s paper with Steve, wordless. She’d dropped a kiss on his cheek, too polite to mention the uniform he still hadn’t changed out of, and then she’d been gone.

He picked the newspaper, ignoring the words in favor of the photograph. It was black and white: Captain America was on his knees, stars and stripes on the back of his uniform hunched over Iron Man’s body, shield discarded upside-down behind him. Only Iron Man’s legs were visible, but Steve could see the pieces of the armor he’d flung off scattered around them in disarray. 

Steve sighed, setting the paper on the empty dresser. He should have gotten flowers, he thought stupidly. 

Tony stirred from his sleep, blinking awake, but stopped dead when he saw Steve. His hair was a mess, and he was covered in bandages, head to toe. Two matching shiners on either eye were beginning to darken. “Cap-Captain?” He said, shaky, a far cry from Iron Man’s usual greeting, or even Tony Stark’s bravado. 

“Tony,” Steve returned, and then, more gently, “Shellhead.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“No.”

“You’re not kicking me from the team?”

“What? Of course not,” Steve said, bewildered. 

“Oh.” 

“I was worried about you.” 

“Sorry,” said Tony shortly. “You didn’t have to bother.” He avoided Steve’s gaze, instead inspecting his hand, knuckles torn and purpling in a similar state to the rest of his body.

“Tony,” said Steve, and waited until Tony met his eyes. He reached out slowly, projecting his movements, and took the hand Tony had been focusing on so hard in his own. He brought it up to his lips, maintaining eye contact, and held it there for a moment.

Tony’s eyes were wide, his mouth parted. And then, like a floodgate had opened, his entire face softened.

Tony turned his hand over cautiously, like he expected Steve to pull away any second, and laced their fingers together. 

Steve smiled. 

\---

At the next Avengers press conference, Steve waited until he could feel the weight of all the cameras in the room pointed his way. Then he leaned into Iron Man’s side, and pressed a kiss to the cool metal of the faceplate. 

The flashes went wild.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :D


End file.
